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‘That is … unusual.’ I came to a halt at his shoulder.
A man stood with his back to us. He looked to be running but hadn’t a twitch of motion in him, as if someone had taken the trouble to dress a very well-executed statue in a one-piece beige tunic and trews, belted at the waist. In one hand a long rod, almost like a broom but topped with a mass of red strips, oddly familiar, in the other a strange cup, extremely thin-walled, half-crushed in his grip, a dark liquid spilling from it, going nowhere. It set me in mind of blood droplets exploding from a broken skull, hanging in the air forever. It put me in mind of Fexler.
‘So you’ve got yourself a Builder in stasis.’ I looked around for some kind of projector like the one that had frozen time around Fexler. The section of corridor looked identical to the rest.
Kosson threw me a hurt look, for a moment a child with his enthusiasm dashed. ‘Yes, but see who we have here!’
We edged around the invisible glass surrounding the man. That was how it felt. Slick glass, cold to touch, the edge of time where hours and minutes die to nothing.
‘See?’ Kosson pointed to a white rectangle attached to the man’s chest, to the left. It looked to be a piece of plasteek and bore the legend ‘CUSTODIAN’ in black. ‘That means he’s the guardian, the protector. The guard archivists have books that tell the meanings of ancient words.’
‘He looks soft to me.’ Weak, white, fear in his eyes.
‘The strength of the Builders was never in their arms. That’s what the Lord Commander says. I agree with you myself, he’s no warrior. The Lord Commander tracks his ancestry back to the first custodian. This man. He’s the family’s patron saint.’
And in that moment I understood why the man’s broom-thing seemed familiar. ‘That staff of office Hemmet’s got. It’s copied from this, isn’t it? Shorter, prettier, but this?’
Kosson nodded.
‘Patron saint, you say?’ I sucked my teeth trying to figure that one through. ‘You’re telling me Roma canonized a Builder?’
‘You’ll have to ask the Lord Commander that one.’ Kosson shook his head. ‘Come on.’ And he led back the way we’d come.
We were reunited before the throne, a plain wooden chair, high-backed and sturdy, ancient work, crudely fashioned. Here and there gleaming bolt heads drew the eye, on the armrests, the front legs, the sides, smoothed flat to the wood. Legend had it that kings among the Builders had sat in this same seat and the same secret fire that ran through their machines had run through their veins. It had been shipped in across a great ocean long ago.
‘Will you have me keep my distance? Stand over here? Unclean as I am.’ I paused some yards back.
Sindri grinned and waved me forward. Elin intercepted me as I approached, lifting her fingers to touch my scarring. ‘The North knows how you came by your wounds, King Jorg, and they are no taint.’
The throne stood on a dais of two high steps. The throne hall itself reached to the great dome covering the whole palace complex, and lay in a great circle surrounded by many chambers.
‘The wedding ceremony will be conducted here before the throne with an honour watch of one hundred and fifty guard, the troops assigned to escorting each of your fathers to Congression,’ Lord Commander Hemmet told Sindri.
‘A priest of Roma speaking the words within the Gilden Gate,’ I said. ‘That must grate, Lord Commander?’ Whatever the disrespect the guard showed to the Hundred it paled next to that reserved for the Pope and her underlings, be it cardinal or choirboy.
‘Never that, Jorg. The emperors maintained a personal priest swearing no allegiance to Roma. Such clerics are still available from a church within the palace. The Pope holds no sway within these walls, her corruption of the faith doesn’t touch the guard, we keep to older ways. I doubt me that the Gate would allow any priest with Roma’s stink to pass.’
‘Well and good,’ I said. ‘I hold to older ways myself.’ And I stepped closer to Elin. She smelled good, of woman and of horse, neck slender, eyes wicked. I nodded for Hemmet to continue his show and tell. Not that he was waiting for my permission.
‘At Congression the Hundred break into their bickering groups and secret themselves in the preparation halls.’ Lord Commander Hemmet swung an arm to encompass all the side chambers. ‘Lord Sindri and Lady Freya may take a chamber each to house their respective wedding parties.’
‘Can they choose which?’ I asked.
‘Your pardon, King Jorg?’ He had a way of speaking that made ‘king’ seem a very small word.
‘Can they have any of the chambers they wish? There must be thirty or more.’
‘Twenty-seven, and yes, they can have any of them.’ He nodded.
‘Well let’s go exploring then,’ Elin said, and took my hand, leading me off toward a distant archway.
I heard Sindri snort behind me. ‘Come Uncle, Norv.’
‘And I’m supposed to know what to look for?’ I heard the uncle growl behind us. ‘It’s just a damn room.’
We had a fair walk to the first chamber. The emperor’s throne room would fit within Ibn Fayed’s but with not much space to spare, and I judged it more ancient, turned to this purpose at a time when the empire was still in bud.
We halted before double oak doors inlaid with ironwood, the marquetry depicting two battling eagles facing off across the dividing line. Elin’s hand felt cool in mine. She nearly matched me in height, the whiteness of her making something alien yet intriguing. She pushed a door and led me in.
The room beyond lay cavernous and dark, lit in patches by light from small windows in the ceiling, glazed using lost skills or stolen glass.
‘There’s nothing to see,’ I said. ‘And besides, it’s just a room, what’s to choose?’
‘And there’s me thinking this was your idea in the first place,’ Elin said, moving by me, pulling me into the shadows. Something in the way she brushed past lit a fire.
I had been thinking to send Sindri and his party off questing after a suitable room to claim, hopefully with the Lord Commander in tow, leaving me to poke around the empire throne in a moment of privacy. Instead we’d left Hemmet back by the throne and I was wasting my time with—
‘We won’t have long.’ Elin snaked her arms around me, strong and slender fingers kneading into the muscles along my spine.
‘I don’t want Sindri to—’ I started.
She kissed me, challenging, hungry. Then, pulling away, ‘Oh shush, he knows me.’ She shrugged off her velvet cloak.
‘I need to get to the—’
‘I know what you need, my king.’ She drew her tunic overhead, black as moleskin, a fluid motion leaving her naked save for skirts. Skin like milk, showing only the faintest pink at the tips of full and heavy breasts.
It was true. She did know what I needed.
46
Five years earlier
‘Who the hell are you?’ I pushed myself from Elin and left her leaning back against the wall, still patting down her skirts.
‘A man who sees the future.’ The intruder, a priest by the look of his robes, watched us with milky eyes. For the sake of Elin’s honour I hoped he saw as little as the cataracts suggested.
